What I really want to tell him is to pick up that baby of his and hold her tight, to set the moon on the edge of her crib and to hang her name up in the stars.

It turns out that sharing the past with someone is different from reliving it when you’re alone. It feels less like a wound, more like a poultice.

there's something nice about knowing that i'm not the only one who doesn't quite fit the part.

We sit for a few more moments, although there's really nothing left to say. This is new to me, too, an entire conversation that takes place in silence, because the heart has its own language. I will remember what Eric says even though he doesn't say a word. I will tell it to her.

When you think you're right, you're most likely wrong.

If history has a habit of repeating itself, doesn't someone have to stay behind to shout out a warning?

be a good listener, don't judge and don't put boundaries on someone else's grief.